


Of Words and Swordplay

by JennTheMastermind



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Davos is still Jon's number one supporter, F/M, Jonerys, Sword Training, a get-to-know-each-other fic basically, jon x dany - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-17 21:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11859621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennTheMastermind/pseuds/JennTheMastermind
Summary: After Euron Greyjoy attacks the Iron Fleet and the Dornish at the end of 7.02, Daenerys is more persistent in taking Drogon to avenge her allies. Daenerys plans to learn how to fight and defend herself to ease her advisors' worries, but she isn't expecting Jon to offer his own instruction.As he teaches her what he knows of swordplay, Jon and Dany begin to tell one another of the events that lead each of them together. It's the moments not shown on screen, where they begin to learn who the other is, what they've been through, and how alike they really are.





	1. The Dragon's Sword

**Author's Note:**

> I just really like the idea of Dany learning how to use a sword, and what better way to learn than from our guy Jon Snow?
> 
> This takes place after the end of 7.02 and after Jon and Dany's first meeting in 7.03, but before the cave scene in 7.04. Timelines are strange, and I should have posted it sooner since Jon and Dany's relationship has progressed farther in the show than what it was when I had this idea. Oh well! Let's consider this part of the in-between relationship building we didn't quite get. Enjoy!

Of all the things Daenerys loved about her advisors, it was their honesty she valued most. Of all the things she found most irritating about them, it was their stubborn refusal to allow her to take risks that annoyed her the greatest. She was a queen, they would say, and much too valuable.

 _What kind of queen am I_ , Daenerys would think _, if I sit by while others die for me?_

After all, she was a dragon. She may not have armor, and she may not know how to wield a sword, but she was the strongest of all her subjects as a queen should be. Except, her advisors seemed to be too caught on the “may nots” of that sentiment rather than the “dragon” part. They were not keen on the idea of Daenerys riding Drogon to burn Euron Greyjoy’s fleet and avenge her fallen allies of Dorne and the Iron Islands. They weren’t keen on the idea the first time she presented it, but Dany was losing her patience.

“All it takes is one well-aimed arrow, Your Grace,” Missandei said again.

“Then I shall have armor made for myself.”

“And what if you happen to fall from Drogon?” Tyrion supposed. “What if by unfortunate circumstance you find yourself on board an enemy ship, out of reach for your dragons’ help, and no way to defend yourself against that madman and his men? Your Grace, you are a _ruler_ , not a _soldier_. You don’t know how to use a sword, and there will be a worse fate waiting aboard Euron’s ship on your way to King’s Landing than Cersei taking your head.”

Daenerys straightened in her highbacked chair, taking a moment to think by glancing at the war table in front of her—the map of Westeros and everything that was _hers_. Dany had to believe she would rule over more than just a wooden map on a desolate island. A man like Euron Greyjoy would not stop her.

After all, she was a dragon. She could eat roast kraken for breakfast, if she wished.

Daenerys looked up at Tyrion, hardly moving anything but her head. “Then I shall learn to fight.”

Before any of her advisors could object, Daenerys stood, resting the tips of her fingers against the map of the kingdoms that were hers. “Summon the best instructors from the Khalasar and the Unsullied. I have as much time as it will take for the most skilled blacksmith we have to fashion me armor suitable to riding Drogon, so I cannot be taught by both men. We shall hold court to determine which man would be best suited to the task.”

Daenerys stepped away from the war table, dismissing herself from her advisors. However, when she reached the door she had another thought. Daenerys looked over her shoulder at Tyrion, adding, “And summon Jon Snow, as well.”

“At once, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, submitting to the idea of sword training however opposed he sounded.

 

* * *

 

 

Initially, Daenerys had intended for her summons of Jon Snow to merely be a show of her character and strength. She neither disliked nor liked him, but Daenerys recognized he could become either a helpful ally as Tyrion insisted—or a bothersome enemy. If Jon would not bend the knee, then he needed to know exactly who he was opposing. It seemed only just to let him see.

Nevertheless, when Daenerys’s summoned instructors were told her commands, and when the court decided the best way to determine which one would be her personal instructor was a combat competition using blunted training weapons, she had not expected the supposed King in the North to step forward and break the sullen silence he seemed so fond of.

“Your Grace,” he said, standing bolder in her presence than he ever had the first time, “I have no place in your court, I know, but—”

“Do not presume to council me against my decision, Jon Snow,” Daenerys said, having heard enough from Tyrion to know that anything following the word “but” was nothing in favor of her choices.

“I don’t,” he said.

The words rang, as if he were waiting for her to interrupt him again. He stood still in his Stark leathers with a hard look about him—his posture, his mouth, his eyes. Especially his eyes, Daenerys noted. They seemed equal parts cold and warm, and she had no idea how that was possible. All she knew was he looked on with no intentions other than honesty, and she supposed she had to admire that. Anyone who’d dare look on her as if she wasn’t the last Targaryen or a queen but just another person and speak his mind was worthy of admiration.

Finally, Jon continued. “You want to know how to defend yourself against Greyjoy men—Westerosi soldiers. After the Greyjoys, perhaps you’ll want to defend yourself against Lannister men—more Westerosi soldiers. I’ve never seen the Unsullied fight,” he paused. “I’ve never seen the Dothraki fight. But, I know they fight differently than Westerosi like Greyjoys and Lannisters.”

“What is your point, Jon Snow?”

“I’d like to offer my own instruction, Your Grace.”

Daenerys straightened on her throne, not entirely expecting such words. She allowed seconds to pass before she asked, “Are you not preoccupied with the dragonglass you wanted so badly as to travel all the way here for?”

“The mining hasn’t begun yet,” Jon said carefully. “You were kind enough to allow me mine the dragonglass with the help of your people. I offer my instruction as my thanks while there is still time to offer it.”

Daenerys drummed her fingers quietly against the stone around her. She tilted her head at Jon and said, “You refuse to bend the knee, but then offer me your sword for lessons.”

“I do.”

“You’re very bold to assume your instruction is as equal to those of my own men.”

“I never said anything about equal, just different.”

Daenerys held Jon’s stare, just as he held hers—a battle of stubborn wills. He was an admirable man, indeed, to still be standing underneath the weight of whatever sadness he carried. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it was the only reason she thought could explain how his eyes can look cold and warm at the same time: deep sadness that has turned him into a man as hard as she’d heard the North itself can be, but a defiant love for _something_ that kept him up and fighting. Daenerys thought perhaps she might like Jon Snow more than she disliked him, but admiration was not enough. He believed firmly in what he said was truth—this threat from the dead—yet she didn’t know him nearly well enough to decide if his truth was the real truth.

Dany was about to speak when another voice interrupted.

“Your Grace,” Ser Davos said, stepping forward beside his king as he had the first day they’d met, “if I may. As Commander of the Night’s Watch, Jon Snow taught his brothers how to fight and defend. I reckon he taught them before that, too. And when the day came to battle for Winterfell, I was there when Jon proposed to Ramsay Bolton that they decide the fight in single combat rather than let thousands die. Bolton refused, knowing he’d lose to the greatest swordsman in the North. You'd find no better fighter and no better instructor.”

Daenerys thought Jon was rather fortunate to have a man such as Davos to speak on his behalf, judging by the look Jon gave his advisor that he wouldn’t have said so much himself.

“Ramsay refused because, like you said, Your Grace: everyone loves doing what they’re best at,” Jon said, looking back up at her with a slight smile that was neither genuine nor joyful, but impatient instead. “Ramsay was best a trickery and torture, and none of this matters to your learning to fight.”

Jon gave another glance to Davos, neither harsh nor thankful. “My offer stands, Your Grace.”

Daenerys had made up her mind before Ser Davos decided to champion his king’s skill, but the course of conversation had made her wonder. There was much the northman and his advisor were not saying, such as days before when Davos had said Jon took a knife in the heart for his people. Tyrion determined it was simply a saying of the dreary and dull North, but Ser Davos was not of the North. Though she suspected no treachery, only secrecy, something else was at play and she wanted to know what.

“What is it, Jon Snow, that _you_ are best at?” Daenerys asked, tilting her head in curiosity.

Jon stood still and silent and defiant, obviously having been prodded long enough with court-room talk and manners. Daenerys sighed, assuming she would never hear the answer to her question. As warm and sad as Jon Snow’s eyes seemed, he was not so unguarded as to show any vulnerability in the court of someone who was not a friend, even if she wasn’t a foe, either.

“Very well,” Daenerys finally said, and Jon seemed to relax knowing her questioning was over. “I’ll gladly have your Westerosi instruction— _if_ you can best my men.”


	2. The Wolf's Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon thinks about what spurred him to fight for Daenerys's instruction and prepares for the competition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day? Unheard of.
> 
> Thank you everyone for the kudos and nice comments! I hope this next chapter lives up to expectations. Enjoy!

Jon wasn’t entirely sure what possessed him to offer his sword for the queen’s instruction. He had his reasons, yes. He couldn’t have the one possible ally the North had left against the Night King going off to battle unprepared to fight for her life if need be. Daenerys Targaryen was important, with or without a dragon or three. The North needed her alive. The people of Westeros needed her alive. Jon should do what needed to be done to ensure she stayed that way for the benefit of his people.

Even so, she had her own swords to train her: an Unsullied soldier and a Dothraki warrior he’d never seen fight before. Whatever reasons he had, they hadn’t bound him to make his offer. Jon did that on his own, and bound himself to a blind fight.

He’d faced worse odds with greater risks, however, and he’d come out of every fight he’d had before alive—every fight except the one he hadn’t known he’d been losing until he lost his life. None of those had been fought with tourney weapons, either, and the Dragon Queen didn’t want him dead. Not yet, at least.

Jon donned leathers better suited to fighting than what he’d been wearing earlier. The only good mail or plate would serve in this competition would be slowing him down. Fastening a sword belt, he knew the most damage the blunted weapons could do were bruises—perhaps broken bones, if the other two men were determined enough. Jon trusted himself to be quicker if that were indeed the case.

“Have you ever seen the Unsullied or Dothraki fight?” Davos asked, handing Jon a tourney sword. He’d used no sword but Longclaw in so long, the blunted sword felt strange and clumsy. Jon flourished and swung it once or twice, knowing the feeling would disappear soon enough—hoping it would disappear sooner still.

“No,” Jon answered. He’d wished the queen had left time before this competition for him to watch her soldiers and warriors fight, but wishes were nothing but wasted thoughts. “Have you?”

 Davos nodded his head in way that didn’t make Jon feel very confident in his advisor’s words. “I’ve heard tales.”

 “Any advice?”

“Don’t lose.”

Jon shared a halfhearted smile with Davos. The old smuggler had given better counsel.

“My apologies that you don’t have more time to prepare, Jon Snow,” Tyrion said, causing them both to turn towards the door. “I’m afraid the queen is quite insistent the competition take place today so she can begin training on the morrow.”

  Jon stuck the tourney sword through his sword belt and followed Tyrion, Davos close behind. “She’s impatient, your Dragon Queen.”

“More patient then some,” Tyrion said, adding over his shoulder, “more patient than you.”

“And how’s that?”

“Daenerys had many opportunities to come to Westeros and reclaim her birthright, yet she waited her whole life to do so and accomplished many great things in Essos while she did. Can you say you’d do the same?”

Jon had never been in exile, but he’d been at the Wall. There were times where it had felt like the same thing: when his father was killed; when Robb took up arms; when Robb was killed and betrayed. He might as well have been worlds away when those things happened. Jon had been tested, like old Maester Aemon had said. He’d had his opportunities to leave like Daenerys had. He almost had left once, and his years in the Watch were not the same as a life of exile.

Jon shook his head in answer. He couldn’t say he’d do the same.

As they came upon the closed doors of the great hall where Daenerys had received him when he arrived on Dragonstone, Tyrion braced his fingers against them and looked at Jon.

“If you happen to win this competition, Jon Snow,” he said, “perhaps you could convince the queen during her training to remember her patience and _not_ fly out to meet her enemies.”

Jon looked at the doors, towards the room where he knew Daenerys Targaryen and the other two competitors were waiting—gathered again after only a few hours wait. He thought of the fight that was ahead of him and his blood prickled with anticipation. Jon had seen more fights than he’d ever wanted to, but he still felt a nervous before each one—a nervousness that kept him alive. He flexed the fingers of the hand he’d once burned grabbing that lantern to protect Old Bear Mormont from the wight. The memory and the scars were enough to remind him why he was here and why he was fighting a competition to teach an ally the North desperately needed.

Jon was determined to win; he needed to. Training with his brothers in the Watch was how he’d made allies with Grenn and Pyp and Sam—how he’d made friends. He was taking Tyrion’s advice and trying to learn who the queen was. Perhaps teaching her would yield the same outcome it did in the Watch.

As determined as he was, he’d heard in Daenerys’s voice she was more determined still to fly her dragon and meet her enemies. Jon could not be dissuaded in his own plans. Daenerys would not be dissuaded in hers, either. What Tyrion asked wouldn’t be possible.

Jon looked back at the Hand of the Queen and finally said, “You’d have better luck stalling her. It would give her more time to learn to fight. That’s the best you could hope for now.”

“And how do you propose I do that?”

Jon thought. “She said she’d train until her armor was ready. That won’t take long to make. It’s not long enough to teach her. How long would it take a saddler to make something for a full grown dragon?”

Slowly, Tyrion removed his hand from the door and nodded. “You may prove yourself something other than a Northern fool yet.”

Dothraki guards opened the doors before them and Jon entered the hall where the queen and his competitors were waiting as expected. The Unsullied and Dothraki men were standing in the center of the hall, and Jon joined them while Ser Davos and Tyrion took to the sides. The first thing Jon noticed were the light leathers his competitors wore. The second thing he noticed were their weapons: the Unsullied carried his spear, and the Dothraki his curved blade. This much Jon had expected. It was how they used the weapons he didn’t know.

Finally, Jon looked up at where the Dragon Queen sat her throne of stone. Daenerys sat much as she had that first day, wearing Targaryen blacks with her silver hair braided back and her hands clasped in her lap. She didn’t appear eager for the fighting, Jon thought. She only seemed eager to have her champion instructor found.

The Unsullied soldier and Dothraki warrior knelt, bells jingling in the Dothraki’s braid as he did. Jon remained standing. Daenerys favored her men with smiles and bid them to rise, but her smile turned firm once she looked upon Jon. When she’d given him leave to mine the dragonglass, she’d made clear who and what she considered a part of her kingdom. So had Jon, and he was not about to bend.

When Jon had first seen her, he’d been more surprised than anything. He hadn’t expected Daenerys Targaryen to be so beautiful and close to his own age. In truth, he hadn’t known what to expect. He’d thought only of the alliance he needed, and of how he could never bend his knee and subject the North that trusted and crowned him to a southern ruler.

As beautiful as she was, Jon had quickly remembered his purpose. He was glad he had. If he hadn’t, he would likely have missed the most beautiful, terrifying part of the Dragon Queen. She had a fire in her eyes, in her heart—dragonfire, if Jon had to name it. The queen kept it just beneath her skin: enough for the world to see; enough to keep the world from ashes. She controlled it with her composure and her fierceness, but Jon saw it for what it was. Every man had a beast beneath his skin. Women were no different. They were just better at keeping it in.

Jon wondered not for the first time if perhaps women were the stronger ones. He’d felt the fire he’d seen in Daenerys’s eyes underneath his own skin more than once: any time anyone had called him a bastard when he was young; every time Ser Alliser Thorne decided to remind him what a fool he was; when he looked at Ramsay Bolton’s face after he’d abused Sansa and murdered Rickon, before Jon beat his face bloody; when Littlefinger dared say he loved Sansa in the crypts beneath Winterfell and Jon choked him against the wall. Jon knew the number of times he had not kept the rage back. He could never know the number of times women like the queen had.

Restraint such as that took strength, and Daenerys Targaryen was as strong as she was beautiful.

“Thank you,” Daenerys finally said, her voice ringing throughout the hall as regal and sweet as the first time he’d heard it, “for offering your skills to your queen. As court was held just this morning, you are all aware of what you must do. Whoever the man left standing at the end of combat, I will take him as my instructor.”

The queen nodded, and the Unsullied readied his spear while the Dothraki drew his _arakh_. Jon took a deep breathe to ease the nerves that had always served him well and kept him alive. He and his competitors stepped away from each other, filling the empty space of the hall.

Over the pulse of his heart in his ears, Daenerys said, “Begin.”

Jon drew his blunted sword, as clumsy and strange as it felt, and did what he did best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I'm dragging you along until the next chapter for the fight. This may be because I'm not the greatest at fight-scenes, and I keep getting exciting ideas for how to extend this fic and entwine it with the canon.
> 
> Please let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoyed! Stay tuned for more!
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	3. The Wolf's Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys watches her champion Unsullied soldier, Dothraki warrior, and Jon Snow fight, waiting to name the victor her sword instructor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fight is here!
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading along and being patient during the wait. As always, I appreciate the kudos and comments, and I'm always open to hearing more of what everyone has to say :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Enjoy!

Daenerys was not fond of fights made for amusement. She’d had her experiences with those in Meereen, where they had ended most unfortunately in unnecessary bloodshed. Listening to the cries of steel against steel echo throughout her hall, Dany was glad the weapons were blunted and even more glad the fight was moving so quickly.

The queen soon saw, however, that Ser Davos did not misspeak.

The only Westerosi fighting Dany had ever seen had been done by Ser Jorah or Ser Barristan, but Jon Snow was neither Ser Jorah _nor_ Ser Barristan. She found herself watching the northman as intently as she’d watched her dragons take flight across the narrow sea towards silhouetted land—towards the horizon she called home. She assumed it was because she had seen her Unsullied fight before. She had seen her Dothraki fight before. She had never seen Jon Snow fight before.

Of course, as a queen she should be watching all three of the fighters, judging which would be best for her needs. Yet she couldn’t. Dany called it curiosity, refusing to name it anything else, and left the thought in the wind where it belonged while her Dothraki jumped over a low aimed thrust from her Unsullied, and Jon Snow met the force of the _arakh’s_ momentum with a block of his own.

As she watched, she learned there was a degree of hacking and cutting to the Westerosi style that lacked the certain swift and instinctual graces of the Dothraki and the disciplined focus of the Unsullied. Nonetheless, Jon Snow did not lack for any of these qualities as he bent backwards from a sweep of the _arakh_ and straightened to parry a spear thrust. He was simply different, as he’d said. From what Daenerys saw, he fought equally, as well.

Still, as Dany tried not to wring her clasped hands to the sound of blunted sword and spear clashing through the hall, she knew she was not looking for “equal.” She was looking for the better of the three—the best that could teach her what she needed to ease her advisors’ worries and send her swiftly to avenging her allies. This was a means to an end, Daenerys knew. It was not meant as an assessment of the King in the North’s humility and honesty.

The bells in the Dothraki’s hair jingled, almost unheard beneath the shouts of their wearer as he lunged. Jon Snow side stepped and parried, ducking low under the spear’s thrust and into the Unsullied. Flipping her soldier across his back, Jon brought his tourney sword up in a one motion. It met the blunted _arakh_ with a clash of steel that jarred Dany’s bones by sound alone. Her Unsullied recovered and swiped the end of his spear under Jon’s feet. The King in the North fell, just in time to miss another slash of the _arakh_. The curved blade met her Unsullied’s spear, and the _clack_ echoed through the hall.

Jon lost his breath against the stone floor of her hall and Daenerys’s hands ached from how tightly she held them together. The Dothraki wrenched aside the spear, then turned his sweep downwards towards the ground. Jon Snow gasped for air, but it was Dany who couldn’t breathe until he rolled aside.

The _arakh_ swept stone.

Jon swept the Dothraki.

Her warrior’s feet went from underneath him. He fell, and as he did Jon reached for the curved blade. Jon brought the _arakh_ up with his left hand and threw aside the Unsullied’s spear. He rose to his feet, pressing the point of his blunted sword to her soldier’s throat. Behind him, her Dothraki quickly got to his feet. Jon turned quicker, and brought up the warrior’s own _arakh_ to circle his neck in the cold embrace of the steel’s curve.

The hall hushed and the fighters froze, all except their fast breaths and heaving chests. The walls left the fight’s echoes to fall, and in the hush Daenerys studied Jon Snow’s face.

There was sweat on his brow from the fighting, and a grim frown from the concentration. These she expected, but it was his strangely cold yet warm eyes she watched. He looked on at his opponents still, adrenalized by the wild instinct of the white wolf others named him to be. Underneath it, however, was the reluctance and regret of a wish to be anywhere else—anywhere he didn’t have to fight. It was a dangerous look, perhaps made more dangerous by his own dislike of it.

_This is Jon Snow,_ Daenerys thought. _The King in the North, a dangerous wolf tamed by his own sadness, but a dangerous wolf nonetheless._

Daenerys stood from her throne and the look was lost. The chill it sent down her spine stayed, however. As she quietly walked down the steps towards the fighters and all weapons were lowered, Dany tried to subdue the pull of familiarity—of like calling to like. She was no wolf, but a dragon could be restrained by her own sunken heart just as easily.

Perhaps dragons and direwolves were not so different, beneath the scales and furs.

Daenerys approached the fighters, and her soldier and warrior knelt. Once again, her northern guest remained standing. She bid her men to rise and addressed them all.

“Well fought, each of you, and thank you for your participation. Jon Snow,” she said, turning to speak directly to the King in the North, “you’ll have your opportunity to give your gratitude and return my favor, as you wished.”

The northman nodded his head once as a pair of Dothraki guards relieved him of the tourney weapons. The Unsullied soldier followed them out of the hall, knowing his services were no longer needed for the day and taking his blunted spear with him. The Dothraki fighter was less complacent, however. As Lord Tyrion followed Daenerys down from her seat, she heard wisps of the Dothraki’s irritated conversation under Tyrion’s words in the Common Tongue.

“Do remember what I said, Jon Snow,” her Hand told the northman. “Teaching dragons is not so easy as fighting soldiers and warrior, but perhaps not as difficult as reminding them.”

Daenerys ignored Tyrion, choosing to let whatever he’d spoken about her to Jon Snow remain their private conversation. Instead, she approached her Dothraki warrior, unable to do nothing about what she was hearing. It was her duty as queen to pacify when necessary, but she did not act out of duty. She acted out of care for a man who’d fought for her when she’d asked.

She touched the warrior’s arm and spoke to him in Dothraki, hoping to calm him. Dany didn’t know how much she succeeded, but her warrior left in a better mood than he had been moments before, so she knew she had done all she could.

As the doors shut behind the warrior, Daenerys felt eyes trained on her. As Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, enumerated with as many titles as she had great achievements, Dany was accustomed to people’s stares. When she held court, eyes were always on her. When she walked through streets, eyes were always on her. When she walked through her armies, eyes were always on her.

These were not those eyes, however, and this stare was not what she was accustomed to.

This was hard stone and ice, softened by fire obscuring whatever thoughts the wolf had.

“What did you say to him?” Jon Snow finally asked, lifting his stare towards the doors where the Dothraki disappeared.

“Dothraki warriors only cut their hair after they have lost a battle,” Daenerys answered over her shoulder. “I assured him this was no real battle, so he has no need to cut his braid. It was a favor for his _khaleesi_ , and not a true defeat.”

Jon nodded, glancing down as he thought. “Did he believe you?”

_I hope so_ , Dany thought. She didn’t want to insult one of her subjects—one of the men who would die for her if she asked—by choosing a man neither friend nor enemy in his place. She’d agreed to let Jon Snow offer his instruction uncertain whether he and his Westerosi style would win. She’d half expected him to lose and Ser Davos’s words to be half-truths.

Regardless, she could not take her Unsullied or her Dothraki for her teacher now, not while Jon Snow was still at Dragonstone. The rules of the competition had been clearly set, and the northman had one by those rules—by her word. To go against them and take her Unsullied or Dothraki for an instructor now would be to break her word.

A queen could not break her word. To do so would be to break her strength and destroy the love, loyalty, and faith her people had in her.

“Tomorrow, Jon Snow,” Daenerys said, refusing to answer his question. “Tomorrow we will begin my lessons, and we shall see if you teach as well as you fight.”

Daenerys exited her own hall, followed by Lord Tyrion. She left Jon Snow and Ser Davos together, trying to forget the attentive stare that watched her leave—trying to subdue the strange, pleasant nervousness soaking through her bones.


	4. The Dragon's Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys has her first lesson with Jon, sparring with swords and well as words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the slow updates! I'm currently in the process of moving myself and someone else, too, so I don't have as much time as I'd like to write.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy this next chapter! I'll confess, I hardly know much about swords and sword fighting. But, that's really not the actual point of this fic. The point is Jon and Dany, getting to know each other more than they did on-screen. Happy reading! Kudos, comments, and thoughts are always welcome :) Thanks for all the great feedback!
> 
> (Next chapter is from Jon's p.o.v., and I should have it up sooner than I did this one!)

The weather on Dragonstone was fairer than it had been, so Daenerys had Jon Snow summoned outside for her first lesson. She was waiting in a private courtyard—private for all except the dozen Dothraki warriors she had along the perimeter for her guard—thinking it should be the northman waiting on her, not the other way around. Even so, taking Jon Snow as a sword tutor was already unconventional. A queen waiting on one of her rebellious lords couldn’t make things any more unconventional than they were.

Nevertheless, as she ran her hand over the pommels of the training swords set into the wrack she’d had carried outside, Dany couldn’t help but be anxious to begin. She was anxious to have her lessons completed, and to take Drogon out and avenge her allies. She refused to feel anxious about the northman.

 “Your Grace,” he called from behind her. Daenerys turned just as he stepped out from under a stone archway, pulling on a glove. His dark hair was pulled back from his face as it always was, and when he stepped into the sun its light made the scars on his face seem darker against his pale skin.

Dany wondered when he got those scars—where he was and how they happened. She wondered if she would ever know.

“Jon Snow,” Daenerys said, trying on a formal smile to hide the nerves lighting her insides. This was her first step towards appeasing her advisors. Soon enough, she’d be flying over the seas to bring fire and blood to Euron Greyjoy. “Thank you for coming.”

“I said I would, and I’m a man of my word.” His voice was firm, but Dany hardly noticed with how he was looking at her. Jon’s stare prickled her skin, but it didn’t feel as if he was staring as other men had stared—other men like Drogo and Daario and Jorah. His was a studying stare, and it set her pulse to an uneven, heavy beat as he walked a semi-circle around her. He said, “Besides, I’m more or less your prisoner. I can’t refuse, can I?”

“You’re not my prisoner yet, Jon Snow,” Daenerys said, taking a long breath to settle her blood. Talking of political matters had a stabilizing, boring effect. “You offered your sword, won my competition, and are here to teach me—all of your own choice. Am I wrong?”

“No,” Jon answered, stopping his circle at her side with his back to the wrack of training weapons. Then, he added, “You’re small.”

Daenerys almost responded with a simple _excuse me?_ before she settled her surprise. “Is that how you’d address your would-be captor?”

Jon Snow almost gave her a half-smile, but he pulled it back before it was even a smirk. “It’s good,” he said. “There’s less of you to hit, and once you get used to the weight of a sword you’ll be fast. I’ve trained and fought with skinny girls. They’re always faster than men like the Greyjoys.”

Dany raised an eyebrow, refusing to answer that last with anything but a look meant to chill Jon Snow to his bones.

“I’ve trained with my little sister, Your Grace. Arya Stark.” A true smile played his face as he said her name, but it was subdued and reminiscent. Dany didn’t think he even knew it was there. “If she could lift a sword, so can you.”

“Is it customary for the North to train their noble ladies by first insulting their size?”

“It’s no insult, You Grace,” Jon said, his smile falling. His face resumed its habitual solemnness, yet Dany thought his eyes still seemed warmer than they’d been before he mentioned his sister. She wondered how close they’d been, and when Jon Snow had seen her last. “And Arya was never one for custom.”

“What of the other girls you’ve fought?” She asked. Daenerys did not miss the _was_ Jon Snow described his sister with. She was eager to be on with her lessons and away from saddening conversation, but she was still curious. It seemed the safest question to both becalm her interest and save him wounded talk of his sister.

Nevertheless, her question seemed to have the opposite effect she’d intended. Jon Snow’s face grew even more grave, and Dany thought he had the most expressive eyes for being carved from northern ice. It was a solemnness that grew from a different pain than what he had over his sister, however—a pain from heartbreak. Jon Snow carried scars deeper than those on his face, she saw, and Dany knew it because she had her own.

 _My scars burned away in Drogo’s pyre_ , she thought. _His are set into ice_.

“A woman of the Free Folk, Your Grace,” he answered shortly. “As fierce as the men, and twice as deadly.”

Daenerys allowed a moment of quiet to lay talk of their dead to rest. Then, she set her shoulders back and asked, “Shall we begin?”

Jon nodded, taking two wooden swords from the wrack of training weapons. He said, “We’ll work on your grip and stance for a start. When you’ve got that, we’ll move to footwork and defense.”

“Is it wise to begin with defense?” Daenerys asked. “If I fall from my dragon, as every one of my advisors feels certain that I will, shouldn’t I learn to attack?”

The Jon’s face hardened, and Dany knew she was going to be met with the Northern stubbornness he’d displayed so well ever since their first meeting. Daenerys had surrounded herself with advisors who had the courage to be as immovable as herself in the event that she try to act on her worst impulses. She was no stranger to stubbornness. However, Jon Snow managed to make “stubborn” as frozen and immoveable as she imagined the North to be.  Upon their first meeting, she’d taken it for insolence. Now, she considered it worthy of her respect.

“I mean no offense, Your Grace,” he began, “but you took me as your instructor. Now, let me instruct as I see fit.”

Daenerys took a breath to stop the smile that threatened to play along her severe expression. She inclined her head. “My apologies.”

Jon held out one of the wooden swords, offering it to her. Daenerys took it by the grip, glad he’d handed it to her by the pommel. If he’d been holding the grip as well, their hands would have touched in the fake sword’s passing. Dany wasn’t certain why, but she felt it would have been a dangerous occurrence.

When his hand fell away, Daenerys was almost surprised by the weight of the wood. She’d held swords and spears before; not often, but she had. She’d felt their weight then, but she wasn’t simply holding this one. She was going to use it.

“Keep your hold even, steady, and firm,” Jon Snow said, holding up his own sword to show her his grip. She followed his example. “If you don’t, you’ll drop it. Do that, and—”

“And Euron Greyjoy takes my head to Cersei on a pike,” Daenerys finished for him. “I know what happens when I drop my weapon, Jon Snow.”

Of all the responses he could have chosen, among them silence, he simply replied, “Good.”

When Daenerys had a grip solid enough for his approval, Jon showed her proper stances for sword fighting. She followed his example as she had before, putting one foot further out in front of the other and such, but her instructor wasn’t satisfied enough. Jon stepped behind her, tapping the inside of her right foot with the tip of his sword until it was better placed, touching her shoulders with one hand to angle them closer to sideface, moving her hips to better match her shoulders and her feet. She listened to his instruction and followed as best she could, but wherever he touched a chill lingered, those places more alive than were he did not touch.

No doubt Jon meant for these touches to be sexless, cold, and educating. She wondered if he succeeded in suppressing such feelings better than he succeeded in subduing his emotions from his expressions. With her back towards him, she could only guess.

Dany did not think Jon Snow would have trained his sister Arya or his brothers on the Wall while standing so close, but she didn’t stop him. The chills he gave her made it difficult to remember she was the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms and he was lord of the northernmost of those kingdoms, in open rebellion. As dangerous as hands touching in passing would have been, Dany thought this was just as dangerous.

It was a terrible relief when he stepped away: terrible, because her chilled bones and gooseflesh missed his closeness; a relief, because she could remember her purpose here.

It seemed Jon Snow remembered his purpose, as well. He began to show her defensive motions: simple ways to move without her dropping her sword from a botched grip; voiding attacks by stepping in certain directions; how and where to move her feet when she needed to step without unbalancing her stance.

More of his touches came to correct her grips and steps and placements, but Dany soon forgot them when they began to practice. Jon Snow took the attack, and she defended herself as well as she could. He spoke directions for her at first, telling her which way he was striking and where she should defend, and he moved slowly enough for her to become accustomed to the weight and movements of her wooden sword. By the time her arms were aching, he’d moved on to press her faster, and his directions were fewer in between sword strikes.

Dany was sweating beneath her clothes, beads falling down her spine to pool between her shoulders and lower back. Try as she might to hide how winded she was from the exercises, she could not appear as collected as Jon Snow. Sweat had gathered on his brow, but that could have been as much from the warm sun on their courtyard as it was from the practice. When he breathed, his chest rose and fell faster than it might normally, but not as quickly as her own.

When they broke for a moments rest, Daenerys asked, “Why would you ask Ramsay Bolton to fight single combat if you knew he’d refuse?”

Jon sighed, but since they were not in formal court and they were in relative privacy despite her queensguard, she could see he was willing to answer this time. “Same reason you want to take your dragons out yourself, I expect.”

“And what reason is that?”

“Avenge the fallen. Fight and die for those who would fight and die for you. Prove to your people you’re worth their support.” Jon paused for a moment, then added, “Perhaps piss off your enemies, while you’re at it.”

 _What kind of queen am I_ , Daenerys thought once again, _if I sit by while others die for me?_

Instead, she replied, “As my instructor, how promising do you think it is that I will have learned swordplay well enough to fly Drogon out in three days and, as you say, piss off my enemies?”

Jon palmed the hilt of his sword, staring at her boots as he thought. When he looked her in the eye, he asked plainly, “How well can you swim?”

Dany paused. “Is that a joke, Jon Snow?”

“I thought it was a question.”

As he turned his back to her, settling his grip on his sword again, she thought she saw another half-smile—amused, this time, rather than polite courtesy. Dany wondered if a man like Jon Snow ever fully smiled. She knew he must, at least on rare occasions, and she was curious what type of occasion it would take to hear him laugh.

Daenerys set the thought to rest, and picked up her wooden sword once more. She’d caught her breath enough. “Again, Jon Snow. I’ll not be swimming away from my enemies.”

He nodded, and brought up his sword, as well. “As you say, Your Grace.”


	5. The Dragon's Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon contemplates what type of queen Daenerys would be for the North while she plans to leave and battle the Lannister host. A final lesson before her flight, they cross swords and words once more.
> 
> ***Takes place during 7x04, after the dragonglass cave but before the battle at Blackwater Rush.***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I thought I'd have this posted earlier, but guess not. Whoops!
> 
> Thanks for all your patience, comments, kudos, and subscriptions! As always, I hope you enjoy this next chapter. I tried to focus on the fic prompt more than canon events as much as possible. Feedback and comments are always welcome!
> 
> Happy reading :)

Standing on the shore of Dragonstone, Jon listened to waves move upon the sand and dragons move upon the wind. He stood in silence beside Ser Davos, watching Daenerys Targaryen fist her hands at her sides as the breeze lifted her silver hair, waiting. He’d given her his advice. He’d given it because she’d asked—because whatever happened and didn’t happen in the dragonglass cave, Jon saw Daenerys Targaryen in wonder, as a person instead of a queen.

She’d been staring at the drawings, as awestruck as he had been when he first found them. Together, standing in a timeless place, their titles hadn’t mattered. Their allegiances hadn’t mattered. Their pasts hadn’t mattered. Who they were to the people who put their faith in them had not mattered. He was Jon and she was Dany, and for a moment they’d been two people, equals in the face of time and mortality and each other.

That moment had gone. Still, some of it lingered. Jon felt it because she’d asked for counsel, and he’d given it. Jon hoped she knew what to do with it, but all he could do was wait.

Her silence was prolonged and heavier than the waves crashing along rocks. Daenerys was an impossible woman, as impossible as the things she’d made happen. They were both fighting wars, yet it was Jon who faced with the impossible: an undead enemy of an unknown number, and a Dragon Queen.

 _How many people must die for your pride?_ She’d asked. The question echoed in his head—echoed on his tongue as much as it did in his ears. Long ago, he’d asked Mance Rayder the same question. Mance had died for his choice—for the freedom to make his own mistakes. Jon wished he’d known that one day he’d have his own words spoken back to him by an impossible Dragon Queen with silver hair and fire beneath her skin. If he had, maybe he would have known to ask Mance more questions than he had.

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow_.

 _I don’t_ , Jon thought for the hundredth time. He didn’t even know how to bend the knee—if he could or should. He left his home to make the North allies, not to make the North subjects.

If he could not make an ally of Daenerys Targaryen, then he would have to make her his queen. If he did not make her his queen, then the North would be forced to bend to a different king—the Night King.

With or without Daenerys Targaryen, Jon feared he would make subjects of the North in any case. He could not defeat the Night King on his own, and he would not be given a choice when the time came to join his army.

“Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys finally said, breaking her silence and staring towards her dragons, “have my Dothraki army and their horses boarded onto our remaining ships as soon as possible. I will expect you aboard, as well.”

“Where is it we are sailing to, Your Grace?” Tyrion asked. The wind blew through his blond hair, and Jon thought he’d never seen the man so pale.

Daenerys stared at him, the same stare Jon knew she used to make men bend their knee to her command. She’d tried it on him before. “Blackwater Rush,” she said, cold and queenly enough to tame the fire and the fight behind her eyes. “We leave for your brother, Lord Tyrion, and the army that ended my ally’s House.”

Tyrion dropped his eyes to the sand, concealing his heavy breath as best he could. When he looked back up at his queen, there were no more objections. Jon suspected Lannister knew he’d run out of time for objections. Daenerys was an impossible woman. That extended to her stubbornness and willpower, as well.

“At once, Your Grace,” Tyrion said. If he didn’t sound fully convinced or eager, Daenerys didn’t say anything else to him. Instead, she spoke of her shoulder.

“Jon Snow,” she said, walking across the wet sand towards her keep, “we will have one more lesson, I think, before practice becomes reality.”

Jon shared a cautious glance with Ser Davos, but the old smuggler said nothing. Jon shared a sympathetic look with Tyrion, but the queen’s Hand said nothing. Jon decided perhaps that was best, and followed Daenerys towards their courtyard—to think over impossible futures while he dueled an impossible woman.

 

* * *

 

Whenever Jon trained the queen, he couldn’t help but remember his little sister, small and skinny and full of fight like the wild wolf girl she had been. He missed Arya with an ache that never dulled, wondering where she was if she wasn’t dead. When he remembered his instruction of the queen was by her own request, Jon wondered what Arya would make of Daenerys Targaryen.

They were both small and skinny, and Daenerys was beautiful as she was dangerous. Both were eager to learn swordplay, and the queen had three full grown dragons and an army. Jon imagined Arya would like Daenerys, he just wasn’t certain if she’d like her as her queen. He imagined Sansa would like Daenerys, as well. But, he was more certain she’d be less inclined to accept her as her queen than Arya would be. Sansa had had enough of queens in King’s Landing, and Jon wasn’t certain himself if his would-be captor was still the better alternative to chancing the Great War on their own.

Impossible as Daenerys Targaryen was, impossible as all the things she’d done were, Jon had yet to see whatever it was that would convince him to kneel. He owed his sisters and the North for the trust they’d given him. He needed certainty that Daenerys was different from the same shit they’d always known. He hadn’t seen it yet. He didn’t know it yet.

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow_.

Ygritte had been more right than she knew. Jon wondered what she would make of the Dragon Queen, if she would mock her demands for bent knees or admire her ferocity. Perhaps both. Ygritte and Daenerys shared their similarities, too, but the Dragon Queen was not kissed by fire. The Dragon Queen _was_ fire—fire made flesh.

If Jon felt warmer being near her, he could only imagine that was why.

This lesson he’d given her the offensive. He’d only had two lessons beforehand to instruct her on defense, but if she was leaving now she needed some experience attacking instead of being attacked. She handled herself well enough, and the fire made flesh burned with anger this time.

She used the dragonfire under her skin and fought with it, letting it burn through her and into the sword the way Jon had done more times than he could ever remember. He was crossing blades—wooden blades, but blades nonetheless—with a woman who knew herself, her rage. Jon tried his best to not make impulsive decisions when he was angry. He didn’t always succeed; sometimes, the decision that needed making required impulse to make it in the first place. When that happened, Jon went with what he knew was right, not with what he wanted.

When he had time to think, hitting something or someone with a sword for a good few hours always helped clear his head.

It seemed Daenerys Targaryen had an inclination towards the same habit, one new for her but old for him, just like swordplay itself. Jon could feel it every time their wooden swords collided with a sharp _crack_ that echoed in their courtyard. She was incensed. She didn’t speak, but she listened to what few instructions he gave her. She didn’t question, but she pressed him harder than they’d ever gone before. Even as she pressed him closer and closer to the edge of the courtyard, Jon wasn’t fighting back with everything he had. The Dragon Queen was a swift learner, no matter how he’d teased her before. But even swift learners needed time, and Daenerys wasn’t ready to fight for real. She wasn’t ready to fight him. She wasn’t ready to fight the Lannisters.

At least, not with a sword.

Jon imagined she could fight just fine atop her dragons. She’d been ready to do that for longer than he’d known her. As she swung towards his left side, he parried with a step and struck at her exposed ribs. He didn’t strike her hard, but she gritted her teeth and pressed on all the same. Pieces of her hair had loosed from her braid and stuck to her flushed face with sweat, and Jon watched her eyes as she tried for another attack towards his leg.

Perhaps it was his distracted thoughts. Perhaps it was his holding back. Whatever the reason, Jon had underestimated the Dragon Queen and what she knew. As he lifted the clumsy wooden sword to parry one of her strikes, Daenerys kicked him low. He stumbled back against the wall of the courtyard. The queen slipped her sword through his guard to rest it against his throat.

They stood still, breathing heavy as they both realized that, for once, their swordplay had ended by something other than their words. Jon looked from her sword to her face. Her cheeks were flushed, and pieces of fine silver hair also stuck to her proud neck. Her eyes were burning as he’d seen them before, as unrelenting as Valyrian steel.

Finally, Jon said, “I didn’t teach how to do that.”

“No,” Daenerys said. “You didn’t.”

She dropped her sword and stepped back, but let her eyes linger in a way that kept Jon leaning against the wall. When she exhaled, he thought he saw her anger transform into a steady determination. Jon felt something left in the space between them, prickling his skin like when he sat too close to a fire. When he tried to speak and end the silence of their stare, he was interrupted by Missandei, the queen’s advisor.

“Your Grace,” the woman said, stopping a distance away with her shoulders straight as always, “the ships are prepared. The Dothraki wait for your command.”

Daenerys finally looked away from Jon, favoring her advisor with a grateful nod. “Good. Tell them to set sail. I will find them shortly. Dragons always were quicker than ships.”

Missandei nodded and left to carry the queen’s words. Daenerys headed towards the sword wrack to hang her wooden weapon. Jon had to rouse himself from the wall, but the apprehension in his stomach did that just as well. He felt like he was about to walk into a fight himself, the nerves beyond that of what he felt before the queen’s competition. The feeling pulled at him higher this time, in his chest just as much as his stomach.

“Your Grace,” Jon said, following her—following the pull in his heart. “You asked for my advice before. I’d advise you now against this—”

“I’ve made my decision, Jon Snow. I will not burn Cersei in her castles or destroy my people in their cities, but I _will_ burn my enemies. You had no objections when it was Euron Greyjoy I wanted to burn.”

“I have no love for the Lannisters, Your Grace. I only object to leaving today. Your armor isn’t ready yet. Drogon’s saddle isn’t ready yet—”

“My armor has taken too long, and I don’t need a saddle. I’ve needed neither before, and I don’t need them now,” Daenerys said, letting her sword fall into its place as forcefully as she spoke. She turned to him, one gloved hand still gripping the hilt. She spoke softer, almost as softly as she had in the cave. The fresh memory pulled Jon’s heart more, as impossible as she was. “Tyrion says it was your idea for a saddle in the first place.”

“Aye, it was. With one—”

“I could be strapped to Drogon and have an even less likely possibility of falling into the hands of my enemies? That’s what Tyrion said. He also told me he once designed a similar saddle for a brother of yours so he could ride his horse. Bran, I believe.”

Jon let his eyes linger on her hand before he pulled them to her face. He was standing as close as he dared—close enough to stay warm, but not enough to burn. He found himself thinking back to the same reasons that’d spurred him to fight that competition. Westeros needed Daenerys Targaryen alive, to stop the threat of the Night King and to free them from the likes of Cersei Lannister. In the dragonglass cave, staring at the drawings of the children and the First Men, Jon had almost thought she’d agree to fight the first with him, together.

They’d been equals, subject to no one but themselves and faced with an enemy wanting to rule their corpses.

_How many people must die for your pride?_

The words still echoed in his head, along with the memory of her pale hair illuminated by the glow of the torch. Jon understood what Mance Rayder meant. It wasn’t pride that held him back. It was his love for the North—for the people _in_ the North. They deserved better. They deserved freedom, just like Mance knew his people did.

Jon couldn’t bend his knee to just any southern ruler, he knew. If he were to choose, he thought perhaps the likes of Daenerys Targeryen would be the best he’d see in his lifetime. He meant what he said, refusing to pledge himself to her because he didn’t know her. He still wasn’t ready to bend. He hadn’t seen enough of her. He didn’t know enough of her.

But, he was beginning to. He needed her alive to continue doing so—to continue deciding whether or not she would be a good enough queen to and for the North—and she was hellbent on freeing Westeros from Cersei Lannister instead of the Night King.

Finally, Jon said, “I don’t know anything about a saddle, Your Grace, but if Tyrion said he did that for Bran, I believe him.”

Daenerys held her lips closed, her grip still firm on the sword. Seconds spanned with their breaths, and something inside prompted Jon to confess quietly, “The last time I saw Bran, he was asleep. Broken from a fall when the Lannisters pushed him from the window of the Broken Tower at Winterfell…He hadn’t been awake in weeks. It was just before I left for the Wall. Now, Bran’s dead, and I’ll never see him again.”

Daenerys dropped her hand from the sword, stepping closer like she had in the dragonglass cave. Jon held his breath, fearful of moving. He couldn’t let it go until she said gently, “I’m not your brother, Jon Snow.”

“I’d think not.”

“It’s not a horse I ride, but a dragon,” she continued. “I only agreed to the saddle, the armor, the lessons in hopes to ease my advisors’ worries. I’m thankful for your teachings, but I don’t need them. I will bring my enemies fire and blood, Jon Snow. I am a dragon—the _last_ dragon.”

 _Which is why you’re so important_ , Jon thought, though he didn’t say it. Daenerys walked away from him with the last word, and Jon hoped her confidence was not as foolish as he was.


End file.
